I am a weather phobe. There is not much about a weather report that doesn’t scare the bejesus out of me. I considered the Channel 5 weatherman in Chicago a mortal enemy as he seemed to take joy in meteorological disaster. He always smiled when five feet of white snow was headed my way. I was frantic realizing I could be trapped inside for days/weeks while he was grinning and collecting a pay check. Just once couldn’t he feel my pain, burst into tears and run around screaming? He and I had to break-up as it was a dead-end relationship. I headed for Palm Springs, California to find weather love.
Ahhh balmy dry days and breezy idyllic nights were mine. The weatherman smiled because he reported only good news. “Another day of 75 degrees. And the weekend looks just as pleasant.” At last, a relationship that had potential. I was anxiety free, no more weather trauma for this girl.
Or so I thought. It’s June and summer is coming. Ominous sounding numbers are on people’s lips: 110, 115, 120 degrees. Words like “You can’t touch the steering wheel without burning your hands” or “The pool is too hot to swim” or “I play golf at 4:00AM” and the scariest, “You better slather your skin with cream or you’ll look like a reptile by September”. I hate reptiles. I hate 4:00AM. At 120 degrees, can my hair catch on fire? And what about my Yellow Lab, “Beefy Boy?” How will he walk on boiling, bubbling pavement? He’ll have to wear shoes.
It’s inevitable, triple digit temperatures are coming, and I feel my weather anxiety rising. I’m beginning to doubt the concept that “dry” heat is better. What does that really mean? I’ll hardly notice my face is in flames? I can only conclude that “heat” is “snow” spelled differently.